


"Fucking Do It."

by twistedrainbows8908



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bullying, Choking, Homophobia, Other, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22244593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedrainbows8908/pseuds/twistedrainbows8908
Summary: Bullying can be bad. Very bad.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	"Fucking Do It."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I really needed to vent.

"Fucking kill yourself, faggot!" He was being choked out, later, more muscular hands wrapped around his smaller, scrawny neck. He couldn't breath, trying his best to suck in short spurts of air but failing, not even managing to swallow. He could still hear Bowers and Hockstedder laughing, screaming at him about how horrifically he was going to die. His vision started to go dark, beginning to feel numb as he hung against the heavy brick wall. He kept getting pushed toward the edge, closer and closer to an impending vision of death. No one would find him, not for a while. No one would see, his body surrounded by a bubble of ignorance, before being dragged away by that fucking clown.

He finally felt the rough hands let go of his tiny, bruised rock. His throat was full of pain, still feeling achy, maybe even feeling blood run down his damaged windpipe. He couldn't speak, only being able to make small, cuddled whimpers, his face still blue. He laid on the floor, in the dirt, crying. His vision and hearing were coming back, as well as sensation. He was back in reality enough to feel the last bout of kicking, to hear the laughing and wishes of his suicide. His salty tears mixed with the dirt, making him look even worse, mud growing on his incredibly pale cheeks. 

He actually managed to drag himself all the home, even on his bicycle. This even should've been included as the eighth wonder of the world, crying, completely broken boy able to keep up a basic sense of balance and movement for even a single mile. His mother was out grocery shopping, with his dear old dad still at work. He stumbled into his room, falling onto his bed, the sheets and blankets and his star Wars pillow case all becoming stained with his heavy years, snot, and an extremely cold sweat, his skin prickling up into goosebumps under the freezing liquid. 

He stayed there for a good few hours, his body marinating in its own depressing liquids. He continued to cry, barely thinking of anything, for at least three hours. He finally started to think again, his brain finally starting to really recover from almost being choked to death. He had an idea. Maybe, just maybe, he actually should kill himself. His parents let him start taking melatonin with just how bad his nightmares had gotten, his sweet little Edddie-kins wailing and screeching, telling him he should be fucking dead, that he didn't deserve to even be near the other boy, much less anyone else. He had the pills. He had an entire bottle, right there in his nightstand, next to a stack of Captain America comic books, stained with soda and Cheeto dust. 

He was incredibly nervous, despite knowing for a fact that his problems would finally be gone. He swallowed, pain rushing into his throat, before pulling the drawer open and grabbing the pills, as fast as he humanly could be. He would lose his nerve in a nanosecond if he stopped moving. He opened them, pouring them all down his waiting throat, groaning at the pain that occurred when he swallowed so heavily like that. He laid down, smiling. He could finally rest, crawling up underneath his blankets, falling asleep soon enough. He could finally rest, his poor abused soul finally getting to rest.


End file.
